“No, no,” she waves him away. “I need the practice.”
“Practice at what -” Mark begins, stopping when she steps away to reveal her burden.
Lying on the floor is a metal man, shaped like a crash test dummy, with a visible skeleton of steel tubes. Its legs are double-poles with hinges at the knees, ending in long, flat feet with stubby metal balls where its toes should be.
Its hips and ribs are little more than metal hoops and flat steel panels: a man made entirely of nuts, bolts, pipes and hinges.
“What the hell is that thing?”
“I call him Rob.”
“Short for robot?”
“Nah, he just looks like a guy I know called Rob.”
“Poor guy.” Mark mutters, walking forward to get a better look at it. “What does it do?”
“He was built for me to practice on,” says Stacy, stepping back. “I'm getting better, watch.”
She puts her hands to her head and closes her eyes, and Mark watches the metal man twitch to life. Rob's feet jerk first, as though he were being electrocuted. Then his entire body spasms, and he rolls over onto his front, pushing himself up from the elbows.
Rob, the metal man, stands eye to eye with Mark. Where his face should be, however, Rob has been given a flat block of metal upon which Stacy has drawn a crude smiley face.
The effect is unnerving. Mark watches as a machine – a robot, he thinks – without any visible power source or engine, cocks its head and waves at him.
Then, as suddenly as he had been given life, Rob dies. His legs buckle and he clatters to the ground with a sound like a box of spanners being dropped.
Stacy's armband has flashed from green to orange, and she is rubbing her temples and biting her lip.
“You ok?” asks Mark.
She nods. “It takes a bit of effort to keep him up and working.”
“That's your thing, right? You can -”
“I can make mechanical things go. Or stop.”
“Even if they don't have a power source?”
She shrugs, nodding again. “Seems that way.”
“Only mechanical things?”
“Man-made mechanical things. I can't affect electrical circuits, for example - but I can make a switch work.”
Mark looks down at the metal figure. “Or a hinge turn.”
“Yeah. Anyway I thought you could maybe do with a sparring partner.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Sparring? You want to fight me?”
“I doubt I'd last long.” She takes a deep breath, and her armband returns to its green colour. “But Rob? He might. The more I use him the easier it gets; I could use the practice, like you said.”
“What if I break him?”
“Try not to. I've gotten strangely attached to his big freaky face.”
“You have unresolved issues, Stacy,” says Mark, taking a swig from his flask and grimacing as the whiskey burns its way down his throat.
He walks over to the mat, and turns around, tensed, fists clenched at his side as he bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Get him over here, then.”
Stacy closes her eyes again, and Rob gets to his feet like a drunk, stumbling and falling before he finally rises to his full height. Watching him walk gets a laugh out of Mark – he totters back and forth like a toddler, arms out for balance.
“You weren't joking when you said you needed practice,” he chuckles.
“Don't distract me,” she says, her face screwed up as she focuses.
“It'll be more distracting when I punch him,” he says, laughing. “He walks like me after ten pints.”
“After ten pints you walk through things,” she laughs.
Rob steps up to the mat and mirrors Mark's position, hands up on either side of his dopey smiley face. Mark suppresses another laugh.
“Ok,” he says, stepping forward. “Give me your best shot.”
It's raining in Glasgow.
Gregor steps in out of the rain, taking shelter in the draught-riddled warehouse, folding his umbrella and shaking it dry before leaning on it like an old man. The warehouse has the feel of an empty tomb, seeming to catch sound and smother it.
He checks his watch and relaxes a little: they're on schedule so far.
A drenched figure in a long black coat, carrying a crowbar in one hand, has leaned into the warehouse.
“Sir, we found it.”
“Show me.” says Gregor, waiting until he is outside until he puts his umbrella up.
He has to step over the twisted bodies of two men, their skulls caved in and their faces crushed into obscurity. The rain has diluted the puddles of blood from dark crimson to murky brown. Gregor barely looks at them.
“The paperwork says that it was to be sent north,” his man explains, “up to Aberdeen.”
“What the hell does Aberdeen need with our weaponry? Who's up there?”
“Best guess is just a buyer, sir. The guy still hasn't told us, and we've run out of things to break.”
“Oh son.” Gregor puts a gloved hand on his shoulder, as gentle as a breeze. “You never run out of things to break.”
The tap-dance of raindrops on his umbrella stops when he enters the second building. In the distance he hears traffic – but no sirens: he relaxes. The industrial estate is fairly isolated: good for the smugglers running it. Good for those attacking it, too.
Shaking his umbrella dry again, Gregor passes it to his man and smooths his suit down before strolling to the small office at the far end of the warehouse, a plasterboard block with one door and one window. Through the glass he sees a bloodied man surrounded by dark-cloaked figures, bearing down on him like a murder of crows.
“Right lads.” Gregor claps his hands as he enters. “You're excused. Go have a smoke or something, then start loading up the vans. The King will be pleased to know that our belongings are where they,” he smooths his hair back, “belong. Oh, and go into the box with the yellow square on it – at the bottom you should find a few canisters. Bring one of them to me.”
The men shuffle past him, leaving Gregor adjusting his gloves as though he were wringing his hands. He clicks his jaw, then cracks his neck and stretches his fingers, the tendons snapping like firecrackers. Sighing with relief, he closes the door behind him and regards the man sitting on the swivel chair, his hands tied to the back arch.
“I d-don't know what else you want,” he stutters.
Gregor peers over the chair and finds that his fingers are all broken, protruding at grotesque angels. He tuts, shaking his head.
“Amateurs,” he says. “I'm very sorry. A professional would have finished this ten minutes ago. I should really do these things myself.”
The man's bloodshot eyes follow him as he crosses the office and leans against the table, adjusting his suit and his hair in the reflection on the window, preening himself like a bird.
“I told your men,” the man slurs, “I was sold the goods by another guy, his name is Tam. Just Tam. I didn't know the King had been robbed -”
Gregor holds up a finger. “I know,” he says. “That man was last seen hanging from his own window with two chess pieces and seventeen nails in his skull. Imagine,” Gregor takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, peeling away the gold foil, “what his mother must have thought when she saw that on the news.”
The man looks down, avoiding his stare. Gregor continues.
“Imagine his friends. They'll all be sitting in the pub in silence. None of them will mention him. Not because they don't remember him, you understand; they certainly remember him. They wont mention him because they're afraid. They are afraid that by associating themselves with him, they will somehow incur the same fate. People can be superstitious without even realising it.”
The man watches as Gregor produces a metal lighter – a silver square with a crown embossed on it – and lights up. He takes a thoughtful draw and lets the smoke out, shapes twisting and curling in the air, catching the dry halogen light.
“Imagine your own family having to deal with that. You have a family?” The man shakes his head. “Really? No mother or father? Cousins? Girlfriend? Dog?” He says nothing this time. “I thought so.”
The door creaks open and one of Gregor's men passes him a yellow canister that looks just like a smoke grenade with a lever at the top. He takes it, rolls it over in his hands, and nods.
“That's the one. Thank you. I'll meet you in the van.”
The door closes again.
“What do you want from me?” asks the captive, shaking, his voice frail and timid now.
“I need a favour.”
He sighs in relief. “Couldn't you just have said that?” He takes a shuddering breath and leans back in the chair. “What do you need?”
“See this?” Gregor holds up the yellow canister. “This is hydrogen sulfide. Now you work in a warehouse for some smuggling ring.” He looks outside the window, where his men are disposing of some bodies. “Well, worked for a smuggling ring. So I'm guessing you didn't pay attention in chemistry. Hydrogen sulfide is very dangerous.”
Gregor stands up, towering over the man.
“You find it in volcanoes. Sometimes in sewers or mines: it's naturally occurring. It's also very heavy – it sinks to the bottom of tunnels and wells and stays there until some poor sap walks along, disturbing it, kicking it into the air. Then they breathe it in, and it kills their sense of smell. It smells like putrid death, you see - but they don't even notice. Then it paralyses their lungs and they die. Fairly lethal even in small amounts. It's also very, very flammable. This thing will explode if you put a match to it.”
“Ok, and what?” the man asks. “You want more, or something?”
“More? Your buyer stole it from us – we had a guy collecting this stuff. There are two more cans out there; I don't need more.” Gregor squats down to eye level as the engine of a van splutters to life outside. “We have a pest problem, you see. Rats so big you wouldn't believe. These rats are special, though – they're bulletproof. They can jump over a building. They pack a punch you wouldn't believe, and they're very smart. You know what they can't do? Breathe in poison. It nearly worked for us before – but we were too easy on the poison. This stuff here,” Gregor taps the canister, “is much more effective.”
“I don't understand.” The man is leaning back, trying to get away from Gregor, and the thick musk of aftershave and smoke that is reeking off of him. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Well frankly,” Gregor smiles with his mouth, but his eyes remain blank, fixed on the man. “I need to know if it still works.”
The man begins to protest and beg, but all Gregor hears is the smooth music of his soul. Smiling with familiar comfort he stands up, places the canister on the ground and cranks the lever on the top.
“I think it takes about three seconds to de-pressurise – safety feature,” he says, heading for the door and throwing it open. “Thank you for the help.”
The man's protests and screams are cut off as Gregor closes the door and walks around to the window, making sure there are no openings. Satisfied, he walks to the warehouse exit where the rain splashes against his shoes, and turns, watching through the window.
The man's cheeks are puffed out, his face turning red. Gregor watches, his face blank, as his test subject loses the battle with his own lungs and coughs, taking a deep breath and panicking.
He's shaking his head, screaming – for Gregor, the world is silent and at peace. He watches his lab rat splutter and gasp, before his eyes glaze over and he slumps forwards.
“Well that was quick,” he mutters to himself.
Shrugging, he turns into the rain and raises a hand – one of his men throw him his umbrella and he props it up, walking out into the rain where the van is waiting to take him home.
Episode 5
Men of Steel
The Trespasser barks orders into his headset as he crashes through a set of double doors. “Medical team to training room one. We have a red signal from armband six, female, power is mechanical manipulation. Begin evacuating to the surface immediately. I'm heading for the signal.”
He streaks down the long, cold hallways of the facility, his breath the only sound in his ears. Even as he hits a rapid sprint on the long straight, his hands are patting his belt and webbing, checking his weaponry and equipment.
Stun-gun; check. Hand-held forty-millimetre launcher, loaded with the same putty he once used to knock out Mark; check. Stun grenades; check. He doesn't bother to feel for his service pistol and combat knife: he has no intent of using them.
The alarm sounds throughout the facility, flashing lights bathing the hallway in red. He reaches the training hall and stops, listening. Instinct says to burst in but his training stops him, making him reach out with his senses, taking his time.
He chooses the stun-gun, a long range single-shot tazer with a charge that will knock out a horse. The Trespasser has it dialled down to half-power. He places a gloved palm on the door and eases it open, coming in low with the weapon raised.
Mark and Stacy stand in the middle of a training mat, a heap of metal on the ground between them. They are looking around in bewilderment. Stacy has one hand on her head, a single line of blood coming from her nostril.
She sees the Trespasser at the door and screams in surprise, clamping her other hand over her mouth. Mark follows her eyes and sees the Trespasser crossing the floor. The training room is dark red, emergency lights humming on and bathing the room in a crimson tint.
Mark raises his hands, his face a mix of confusion and fear, glancing between the Trespasser's eyes and the stun-gun levelled aimed at him.
“Was that us?” he asks.
The Trespasser looks at Mark's armband as he approaches, and then Stacy's. Though he isn't wearing a mask, his face is set in a stubborn grimace; it fades when he sees Stacy's armband flicker from red to orange.
He lowers the stun-gun, holstering it, and rubs his eyes before pressing in his earpiece.
“Command, this is Trespasser One. False alarm; repeat, false alarm. All clear. Send the medical team for a check up anyway. Cancel the evacuation.”
Mark sits on the bench beside Stacy, her metal man still lying in a heap on the mat where she let him fall. The lights clunk and flicker back on.
“What the hell were you two doing?” asks the Trespasser, pacing back and forward in front of them.
The door squeaks and closes over as the medical team leave, taking an empty stretcher and a crash-cart with them, muttering to themselves. The pair's armbands are a healthy green.
“Practising,” she shrugs. “Like you said we should.”
“Your armband went into the red, Stacy – that means nosebleeds, that's the threshold.”
“I'm ok though -”
“Nosebleeds are what comes before the haemorrhaging, Stacy,” he shouts at her. “Which in our experience, results in the immediate death of you and, if you're near anything your power can affect, everybody within about a hundred metres.”
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Sorry.”
The Trespasser pinches the bridge of his nose. “What were you doing anyway? Is that the test dummy we gave you?”
“He's called Rob,” says Mark, smiling despite their telling off. “He's basically the terminator's low budget mate.”
The Trespasser begins to speak, and then stops. He points a finger at Mark, then Stacy, his mouth open as he connects the dot.
“Were you fighting?”
“He needed to blow off some steam.” Stacy throws her hands up. “You said so yourself; Mark needed to hit somebody. Well he can hit Rob all he wants, he's made of metal.”
“And you,” the Trespasser points at Stacy. “You can control that thing well enough to fight somebody?”
“Hey,” says Mark, “not just somebody – me. That's like fighting a car crash.”
“It was hard to start with,” she says, “but after a few tries...”
&nb
sp; Mark leans in, interrupting. “By the time you came in, we were doing best-of-three matches.”
The anger has left the Trespasser's face now, replaced with the distant stare he has when he's planning and thinking.
“That true, Stacy?”
She pouts and nods as if it were nothing at all.
“She needs to brush up on her technique though,” says Mark.
She gives him a playful dig in the ribs that he doesn't even feel.
“I can punch fine -”
“Yeah ok, Stacy, you can punch just fine,” he gives a sarcastic laugh. “You're like a young Tyson.”
The Trespasser raises his hand to his ear piece and speaks in a straight forward manner.
“Trespasser One to Command: have my squad sent to training room one. You might want to come down yourself – and somebody from engineering, too. We have a breakthrough.”
“A breakthrough?” asks Stacy, snapping her head up.
“Back to the mat,” he turns and waves them over, taking off his webbing and his belt and laying it at the side of the mat with a clunk.
He removes his boots after a minute of unlacing and unfastens, unzips and unclasps his armour. It clangs to the floor, the bulletproof plating maintaining its shape, giving the appearance of a hollow Trespasser lying on the ground.
Standing in his shorts and a black vest, he walks barefoot onto the mat and invites them to join him with open arms.
“Are we not in trouble then?” asks Stacy as she hesitates to step on.
“No Stacy, you're not in trouble.” The Trespasser starts cracking his knuckles and neck and stretching his arms. “But I'm going to have to teach you to throw a punch properly before everybody gets here.”
“Told you,” says Mark.
“You too,” the Trespasser points at him. “I've seen you fight. You're like a horse on an ice rink.”
Mark laughs, shrugs, and takes a quick swig from his flask before throwing it on a pile with the Trespasser's overalls.
He steps onto the mat.
“We should have popcorn or something,” says Gary as the squad shuffles onto the training room bench.
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 23